Mourning with the water

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Mabon writings

Dreaming of the dead and the not yet born

I am a gatherer of bones
Who finds stories and tries to remember them,

I have some of yours
Kept close

and now you’re gone from this world
and you were gone
For me
Long before that –
but I cannot remember why.

Sometimes it feels
like floating
Or flying
Or falling

but sometimes power comes
from giving in
or leaving behind.

Now I am afraid
but my fear and the
ever present eventual goodbye
make the creating feel more vital

and so on a day when the
anger is all
encompassing

I imagine them nearby
walking barefoot over rocks
and dipping toes
into cold water

listening and
waiting
patiently
for her turn.

And when I think I am alone
driving through the dark,
that I am the only one,

I remember that we are never the only ones

so when it is time to step away
I turn my back quickly
and even that
small movement
begins to bring relief.

 

Needles

The slow death of winter
comes

and though I try to remain distant
I cannot help but hope

so I lean in with a hard yes
working diligently at what I can control
and releasing what I can’t.

And when the only answer
is I just don’t know,
try to realize that
this is our beginning.

Speak it out loud,
and then
go outside
to play in the snow.

Maybe that is the first step,
to let out a wild and authentic laugh
as I sled down the long hill of our snow
covered backyard as the moon rises

and maybe clarity in something easy
will help bring the rest of the world into alignment,
back into the light.

Maybe we will reject these rules
and decide to make new ones,

maybe we throw away those old maps
realizing finally that we can make our own.

In process – messages to myself

For weeks
I have been living
Inside a large ball of grief

Where pleasure and pain
And sleep and dreams
Seem to mix together
and its difficult to
tell top from bottom

And its many sources
Turn into one unintelligible beast

I have no words for it
Only a big dark hole in my insides
Full of dread and anger
And hopeless sadness
and so much fear
and I want someone to tell me
yes this is horrible
But it will get better
You will not always have this hole
It will fill with something better
Eventually

Just wait
Just slow down
Hold still
Let arms wrap around you
Let voices reach you
Just be still
And see if it feels any different
When you are quiet
If you can see another side
Or hear a bird calling
Brining you to another possible path
There are so many possibilities
Dear one
So many ways you cannot yet see

Maybe take a walk
Go up a hill and see how it looks from above
Change your vantage point
Breath the clean air
Speak to the trees, the ancient ones
With so much wisdom for us
Speak to them and then be still
And see if they speak back

Just try.
Even if it feels useless.
And when you don’t know who you can trust
And you doubt your own insides
Trust the trees and the ferns and the mushrooms
And all those ancient growing things
That belong to the earth
She is our mother and will not steer you wrong.

small corner

I sense the weirdness of time passing

and see how small
my place in the world is.
But this does not make me
feel unimportant.

I am vital to my small corner.

It could not be what it is
without me.

And that corner is plenty.

We would all like things to be simple
but that is not really
what happens here.

At times I would like to write
pages and pages of my sorrow
but I am not sure what else,
what different, I could say.

The grief is still here.
It is unaffected by my efforts.
Its depth varies from day to day,
but it does not leave.

I don’t know what other way to say it.

The doctor speaks to me slowly
so as not to alarm me
the way she would speak
to a scared animal.
I wish I didn’t appear
to require such gentleness.

But I will take what kindness I am given.

I arrive home to a cool house
amidst the early summer heat,
a happy husband marinating the chicken,
cats purring in their sleep,
and flowers in bloom in the front yard.

Who says this isn’t magic.

Greener

It was beautiful out,
blue skied with the sun shining,
on the day we did the planting.

It was the 13th too.
Not Friday, but a Monday,
surely a good omen.

Omens are important at times like these.

So is the rock I have been carrying in my left pocket,
near to my middle and all the important parts.
It’s the loveliest shade of green,
like a green light of hope
guiding my way.

Two days later comes a blessed rain
watering all that has been planted.

The rain makes everything
look and taste greener.

A Tractor on the Highway

Driving
I am stuck behind
a tractor on the
highway.
 
I curse,
embracing the anger
I feel at this inconvenience.
 
I worry for a moment about my
level of self-centeredness
(we all have one, and its best
to keep an eye on it).
 
When I arrive home I pick and eat
3 strawberries from the plants
growing by our back porch.
 
The sweetness reminds me of summers past
and the roots of a need to create
that is not new.
 
But now I cling to it more tightly,
because she who creates
cannot be barren.
 
I am not completely powerless yet.